As his fingers tightened in perplexity he felt still in his hand Lucy’s note. Here was someone who would give him more than kind words and yet exact no sense of responsibility. All his reason commanded him to go to her, only his heart, and that hard abstract critic for once allied to his heart, opposed. I shall be safe with her tonight, he thought, and tomorrow Carlyon and the others will have gone off over the downs and the road to London will be safe. Why, if he went to Elizabeth now, he would have no money for their escape. You mustn’t be dependent on her money, reason added, striking a noble attitude. That decided him. Why, even honour forbade the dangerous course.
He passed through the dark passage and up the stairs, slowly, still a little doubtful and reluctant. In one of the rooms which now faced him Sir Henry Merriman slept. There was even a little danger, he now realised, in this course, danger of being stranded without money in this perilous Sussex. He knew which was Lucy’s room and cautiously he turned the handle and went in. He still held her note, as though a passport, in his hand.
“Here I am,” he said. He could not see her, but one hand stumbled on the foot of a bed.
There was a small sigh, a yawn, and through the darkness a sleepy whisper, “How late you are.”
His hand felt down the bed till he reached a cool sheet and beneath it he felt her body. He snatched his hand away as though it had touched a flame. The note fell from it to the floor. O, if he could surrender to his heart for once and not his body, and if he could go now before it was too late. Three hours’ walk over the downs beneath the moon and he would be home again.
“Where are you?” she said. “I can’t see in the dark. Come here.”
“I only came to say …” he said and hesitated. His heart had spoken, given courage by an image of Elizabeth as she had faced Carlyon, his cup raised to her lips, and his body had cut his words short, for his hand retained the feel of her body.
“That you were going again?” she asked. “You fool.”
He felt his flesh rising to her whisper.
“Will you ever get a chance like this again?” she murmured with an air of unfeigned carelessness. “You know what you are missing, don’t you?”
He took a step away from the bed. “How common you are,” he said. His hand felt behind him for the door handle, but he could not find it.
“You know you enjoy that,” she answered. She did not seem to argue but rather to advise him gently and dispassionately for his own good. Her quiet irritated and attracted him at the same time. “I’d like to make her squeal,” he thought.
“At least before you go,” she said, “strike a light and see what you miss. Put out your hand.” He obeyed her reluctantly. He felt her fingers touch his. “How symbolical,” she laughed a little. “Here’s a flint and steel. Now strike a light. There is a candle here,” and she guided his hand to a table beside her bed.
“I won’t,” he said.
“Are you afraid?” she asked curiously. “You’ve turned very pure since last night. Have you fallen in love?”
“Not fallen,” he replied more to himself than her.
“And you boasted so of all the women you’ve known. Surely you aren’t afraid. You ought to be more used to us.”
He turned his back on her. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll strike a light and then I’ll go. I know your sort. You won’t leave a man alone.” Without looking in her direction he struck a light and lit the candle. It made a small yellow patch on the opposite wall and in that radiance he suddenly saw with extraordinary clarity the face of Elizabeth creased by fear till it was ugly, almost repulsive. Then it was blotted out by two other faces, that of Joe, the black bearded mouth open in a laugh, and that of the mad youth Richard Tims, red and angry. Then there was only the yellow radiance again.
“I can’t stay,” Andrews cried, “she’s in danger,” and he swung round candle in hand.
The girl was stretched on the outside of the bed. She had flung her nightdress on the floor. She was slim, long legged with small firm breasts. With a modesty which had no pretence of truth she spread her hands over her stomach and smiled at him.
“Run away then,” she said.
He came a little nearer and with his eyes fixed on her face, so as not to see her body, he began to make excuses, reason, even plead. “I must go,” he said, “someone came to warn me tonight. A girl—I’ve got her into danger. I must go to her. Just now on that wall I thought I saw her scream.”
“You are dreaming.”
“But sometimes dreams come true. Don’t you see—I must go. I got her into this danger.”
“Well go. I’m not
